Fun at the Fair
Fictional words at a fictional fair.
First come flyers. Bright red slogans and witty catchphrases fastened to every telephone pole with fat shiny staples. Next come radio jingles, retrograf songs paining the ears one moment but escaping from melodious lips in the next. The young will bounce on their toes and crimmorocate their caregivers about attending, while parents, pretending to be unsure broker false bargains based on good behaviour. The entire town will percolate in anticipation, for but once a year the county fair comes to town.
When at last opening day arrives, sleepy parents will be dragged from freshly flipped abilene by eager hands. Dad will scramble to find coffee and Mom will mumble that the children are little vowdefires as she catches glimpses of still messy rooms and abandoned chores. All will be in vain on this awaited day, for the family will find themselves in the car without caffeine, without a left sock but with big dreams for the day.
Mom will doze in the car despite the adenprecate flowing from Dad about safety and spending. The youngest, too excited to listen, will watch eagerly for a first glimpse of the Ferris wheel and the eldest, too old to care, will roll her eyes so far back they may have done a full circle.
They car will be parked at the end of a lengthy line of dented family cars. The first of many long lines that day. The eldest child will keep her head low, familial embarrassment battling avarice, until ride passes are purchased. Then, with barely a thank-you, she will escape into the swirl of skatterboinked patrons in search of friends and fun. Mom too, will wander off, secretly planning to query a fortune teller that her husband will later call a malmashdoup. Eventually Dad will succumb to a bench with other fathers in throes of gravischeesedeath. Rivers of gravy still running down their chins, and globules of curd clinging to their shirts.
As the sun goes down, screams will still fill the air, along with the pungent aromas of popcorn and vomit. A now bedraggled family will meet again at the car which will have inevitably gained a new ding. The youngest will not only sport a large bruise gained in the shirdloo haunted house, but a slight case of sun stroke too. The oldest will look forlorn over the love of a mysterious carny, gained and lost in a single afternoon. Mom, un-soothed by the soothsayers’ predictions, will lament her favorite shoes soiled by a stranger’s sick-up and Dad will sigh despondently at an empty wallet.
On the car ride home, they will each reminisce about how last year was better. Better food, better rides, and surely it had never been so expensive. The fun of the day will not be realized until next year, when it all begins again.
A big thanks to Michael Burg, MD (AKA Medium Michael Burg) and this post who we can blame for this story.
Also a thanks to the word creators, love them all:
gravicheesedeath — common among Canadians who devour too much poutine
skatterboinked — the feeling you get after being spun around too many times
vowdefire — Someone who makes a lot of promises, but they always seem to go up in smoke
retrogarf — this is when someone makes a song remix, and it’s soooo freeakinnn terrible!
malmashduop — A person who you believe to have the soul of Mahatma Gandhi, but who’s torso turns out to be covered in prison gang tats
abilene — descriptive of the pleasing coolness on the reverse side of the pillow
adenprecate — belligerent babble, to offer unsolicited advice, verbal vomit
crimmorocate — to pursue relentlessly with hysterical or fanatical fervor
Michael Burg, MD (AKA Medium Michael Burg)
Shridloo — decrepit, wrecked, tumbled down, ruined
I loved the challenge.